Yes, indeed, I have just spent a week doing nothing, NOTHING, do you hear? Nothing! Except drinking tea and screwing up my knitting. Anaesthesia Hangover = total loss of all mathematical ability I ever had ever. Also, extreme loss of vocabulary and inability to read more than a page without falling asleep. Good Lord, but I’ve been bored.
Anyway. On Thursday morning H and I got up at 5am, so I could take my PPI with one sip of water (as firmly recommended by medical staff), shower, avoid breakfast, avoid tea, avoid even so much as a glass of water, get grouchy, and shout at H for making us miss the train because I was under the impression the train journey would take, oh, a week or so instead of the fifteen minutes it did take, and we were perfectly fine on the next train, but of course by then I’d had my shout and briefly considered bursting into tears. I was wearing a tee-shirt dress that H very kindly says looks perfectly OK (husband speak for ‘please don’t wear that all the time’), which is just as well, because I wore it for the rest of the week as it was the only thing I had without a waist-band. Yes, I did wash it – oh very well, get H to wash it. But it’s very short, and I am selfconscious about my legs. So walked into the Mother Ship’s Day Surgery unit in a slight crouch, feeling just generally Enough Already. Also, tea-deprived.
H came with me even though I had to be there by 7:45 am, so he could hold my hand for a bit in the waiting room and then take my travel-card away as we were firmly told there was no place for us to store valuables. When I was called to go through to the ward, shortly after 8, he had to go away and spend the day staring morosely at his mobile phone and walking a small trench into the living-room carpet.
And I was lead into a nice pink ward, with a group of several other women, and we were all given nasty backless gowns and very nasty dressing-gowns to hide our bottoms with, and we all discretely retired into our cubicles and changed, and then the nurse came round and asked us all the questions we’d been asked at the pre-op clinic visit back in June. From the very same paper-work. For some reason I had two sets of identical paper-work, which threw the nurse into a state of advanced grouchery as she had to sort through it to see which set was the complete set and you know? I don’t think I personally sneaked any copies in anywhere, so, could the grumbling have been redirected out of my personal space, what with personal space being pre-filled with nerves? No? Also, I feel vulnerable in hospital gowns and no knickers.
Anyway. I sat in the chair next to the trolley-bed that was to be mine and tried to read my sensible big book for a while, and then the anaesthetist came by to ask me all the same questions all over again, only in a whisper and a strong nordic accent, so I had to ask her to repeat everything, and she was also a big pink girl like me, and my word, the embarrassment in that cubicle could’ve powered an off-shore beacon for a week.
Long pause, in which I stared glumly at page 57 of my book, and kept catching the eye of the woman in the opposite cubicle, who smiled every time, so I smiled back.
It was now gone ten, and my mouth felt like a freshly changed litter-tray, so when I smiled I could feel my upper lip peeling off my teeth. Urgh.
By now the surgeons were wandering up and down the ward, so I hoped it wouldn’t all take a great deal longer. Ah ha ha ha. Guess who went in last? Go on, guess.
Anyway, I finally spoke to the surgeons, who were also the senior gynaecology and fertility consultants, and they asked me all the questions for a third, no, fourth time of asking, and we discussed my ‘Dysfunctional uterine bleeding’ briefly. I tried strenuously to give an impression of just how much blood I had been losing before the pill got a grip on it. They promised to remove any troublesome-looking things but leave the necessary bits. I signed a consent form.
Another pause. Gone eleven now.
The junior senior consultant came back with an twelve-year-old in scrubs in tow, and asked if I’d allow her medical student (her student? Not her son? Good Lord, I feel decrepit) to do a ‘practice examination’ on me while I was unconscious. They practice on the sedated before they let them loose on women who could kick back, I suppose. I have medical-student friends. I said yes. Even if he was twelve.
The lady I’d been smiling at said no, as she was a bag of nerves anyway, and caught my eye and asked me what I’d said, so I went over to her cubicle and we had a bit of a chat. She was very sweet. Absolutely shaking with nerves, longing for a baby, hoping the laparoscopy would ‘sort it out’. Well, I hope it did. I did not get all informatica on her ass, nor did I give her the very lengthy list of my own woes, as it’s all a bit icky, and it is naughty to frighten nice people. Just before they wheeled her off, she said ‘I hope we’re both back next door together soon.’ Next door is the maternity ward. Bless. I hope she’s pregnant and delighted by Christmas. With all my heart.
And then I went back to my own cubicle to pretend to read my book some more, and wonder if my tongue felt more like suede or flannel.
To be continued, because, my, but this is getting long…